THE LARK OF GOOD FORTUNE

Give me your green hand, seaweed,
Foam's faithful beloved,
For in it I want to read
The sea's good fortune,
That you are in love
None has any doubt:
Neither the beaches, nor the islands,
Nor the eyes of the rain.
Nor the rings, either,
Of wakes surrounding you,
Nor the breeze's does
Racing over the dunes.
Anxieties' blue vein
Beats in your ripe temples.
The salt is always weaving
Orange blossom for your wedding,
The sky, branches of stars,
The moon, ermine furs.
And the fish can no longer
Swim your deep waters
Without feeling they are nightingales
Of the caverns underwater.
And further down, in your
Liquid shadows' depths,
An instinct of corals
Dreams naked throats.
The bords of your domains
Fly you feather beds;
To you forest birds will bring
Epithalamiums of fruits.
(Here the green good fortune
Of seaweed is cut short,
But I can add—
Without boasting or bitterness—
That if the sea fell in love
More than he had ever done,
It was because my sweet friend
Wet her feet in the foam.)